For The Sake of A City
by Quarter 'till Class
Summary: Returning three years after she'd left, Buttercup faces corruption and devastation, having been ignorant of Townsville's traumatic fall from grace. Despite her sisters' efforts, HIM maintains a religious cult following, The Gang Green Gang has expanded and invalidates local law enforcement, and Princess governs the town as a corporatocracy. Eventual Ace x Buttercup
1. Patience

**Disclaimer: The Powerpuff Girls character names belong to Craig McCracken and Cartoon Newtwork unless stated an OC which in case belong to the author, Quarter 'till Class. No copyright infringement is intended. Plagiarism is theft so is prohibited. Do not copy or create a reproduction of this work in any language without express written authorization of the author, Quarter 'till Class. Thank you...Please enjoy.**

**Some Buttercup x Ace**

**A/N: This is strictly in Buttercup's perspective, with the assumption that by fifteen and nineteen she's matured. We look into the changed environment of Townsville, which has recently become Gotham's equivalent with the escalating crime rate. Buttercup departs from Townsville at fifteen, going from city to city as a sort of wandering hero with direct and valiant intentions. Returning years later, Buttercup realizes that everything's a little worse off than she'd anticipated. Despite her sister's efforts, HIM maintains a religious cult following, The Gang Green Gang has expanded and invalidates local law enforcement, and Princess Morebucks governs the town as a c********orporatocracy**. Mojo is serving a life-sentence, the Mayor disappeared a year prior, and Townsville is left to defend itself without help from the outside.  


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**Chapter 1: Patience**

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There's this way Blossom and Bubbles handle things, to avoid direct confrontation and skim past the excessive assault. They talk or cry their way out of what's going on, avoiding eye contact when uncomfortable and easing their way slowly out of tight situations.

It's annoying, to be blunt. I like the direct route. I appreciate straight-forward conversation. I like ending it quickly...no matter how much of their blood is caked on my knuckles or how many broken bones they limp away with. I'm a fighter, I have grit.

I stand over Sedusa, her hair yanked from the roots of her skull, wound around my fingers, dangling limp and dead. She lay unconscious, breathing uneven against the multiple broken ribs. Her complexion is spotted by the immediate bruises left by my fist, green and purple on white. I'd like to freely laugh at her misfortune, but the expressions of horror pointed at my hand are enough to keep me idle.

Blossom wanted to negotiate. Bubbles wanted to talk her into submission. I wanted to smash in her skull for the years of pointless deception that'd wasted our time. For what she'd done to Professor, wearing a facade and manipulating his emotions. Ms. Bellum. The Mayor.

She's a grade-A bitch, she had it coming.

For once my irritation had coiled into an itch, an intolerable urge that had been instigated when she'd spoken profanities towards Bubbles. And it worsened with every superior blow, slapping us around as we held back to avoid disaster. We're always careful, we don't know our strength - we're just little girls. We tip-toe over our foes to avoid physical ramifications. We go easy despite how often we're thrown into walls, smashed beneath debris, slapped around by hair (of all things). I wanted to beat her nearly to death.

So I did.

She can choke on her own blood, quiver in agony and fear. I don't care. I want her off the streets. I'd think everyone would want a manipulative, self-obsessed delinquent either behind bars or six feet under. I guess my opinions aren't as common as I'd initially figured.

But now I'm the criminal. I'm abusing my power, going too far, neglecting the law because_ 'even a villain has rights'_. I'm not fit to maintain superior abilities, I'm a menace to society and all hero-kind. I embarrass the Powerpuff namesake, taint the definition of heroism.

"Buttercup, what's wrong with you?" She asks it in a way that expresses superiority, to show off her intellect. It's the usual tone Blossom saves specifically for me.

"Nothing." I don't know any other way to say it. There's nothing wrong.

"You seriously need to pull your act together." She points an accusing finger in my direction, angry. She barres her teeth when talking, as Blossom is known to do, before shaking her head to express impatient disappointment as though she were my mother. The last few years have taught me how to tolerate my sister. It's very difficult. In kind words: we don't get along.

"Blossom." The Professor intervenes, stern and genuinely troubled.

"Buttercup," He starts with such a familiar and repetitive tone. I have a headache. "I know that it's...difficult...to control your strength, but Blossom is right. You need to start holding back."

I'm offended. He implies that I'm incapable and weak, that I'm unreliable and excessively violent. My own father looks at me indifferently, with a creased brow and unsteady hands and this face of hidden disappointment. He tells me how to fight, how to look a murderer in the eye and admit that they deserve three square meals and a bed to sleep on in prison. After all these years he still has no idea, but he still talks like he understands. Like any normal parent would, like we're failing a test and not defending the public. I see where Blossom and Bubbles get it from, where they've learned to simplify the important things and strain themselves over smaller issues. I wonder how I avoided that learned behavior.

"It's not difficult. They deserve it." I leave the conversation at that. Maybe he'd see it my way.

* * *

Mojo feigns innocence. He holds this desperate look on his paled, green face, sputtering inaudible pleas as though he were harmless. All of the evidence points to him. Every source and informant, even witnesses tell us _he's_ guilty. But Bubbles believes him, and to appease my more incapable sister Blossom follows suite.

"It was not I, no, I did not do this." He rambles on, gloved hands held high in surrender and expression sheepish and off. "I was not present, making me incapable of the act. I was not there so there for I did not do it."

I connect my fist to his face, feeling his teeth chip against my knuckles.

"You're under arrest." I tell him, and before I act rashly Blossom informs him of his rights with a bitter expression and a disbelieving glare. I knock him unconscious, snarling towards the hypothetical blood dripping from his hands. The fire he'd caused (as an indirect attempt to kill us, no less) managed to burn six buildings and an unidentified amount of people. He's responsible for the dead and their children, yet due to a poor alibi we let him walk. Because he said he didn't do it, we're just going to let him scamper back to his tower, laughing all the way.

That's not how it should work.

It's the reason they all keep coming back and killing more. Escaping and committing the same crimes over and over again. Destroying the town, taking lives and forcing the residents of this pathetically defended town to live in fear.

I wonder why we keep them breathing. Why we only put them behind bars, why we don't send them to an early grave and end Townsville's issues in a more reasonable and efficient manner. Why do we have to show them humanity when they lack morals and virtues entirely? An eye for an eye leaves the world blind, with exception to the last man with a single eye. There's no other way to resolve society's issues, so I'd like to be that last man.

I'm a monster to think that way, Blossom says. I'm wrong.

Yea, well...I'm always wrong.

* * *

"Hey Bubbles..." I inspect the loose stitching on Octi's hat, predicting our conversation even before it's begun. I recall how often I used to slap her with Octi. Then the day that HIM had possessed it with foul intentions and nearly ruined my sister. The corrupt bastard.

"Yea?" She's braiding her hair on the bed, sitting on one leg and grinning politely. She's so gullible, rarely aggressive anymore. She's still kind. Nothing like Blossom.

The question hangs on by tongue. I wonder if I should even reiterate what I've been obsessing over. I wonder if it's even possible anymore. She nudges me with her toes, free leg hanging off the bed beside me, tapping to the music blaring from her earphones. She's wearing those ugly blue pajamas I hate.

"How would you feel...if I left Townsville?" It's a common question in this household. Specifically from myself. I often wonder this city's outcome without the three of us as defenders. Now, so much stronger than the years prior, would only one of us be enough to keep it safe? How would it fair under a single, watchful eye?

"Not this again, Buttercup." Blossom rolls her eyes, pink and sharp like always. She glances over the textbook she's buried in, scanning the room and my visual response before looking back to her studies. I've learned to spite her, seeing how she's grown so well into the role of a pompous, hypocritical leader. More strict than before. As I've said: we don't get along anymore.

"I'd be sad." Bubbles frowns, tying up her braids and taking Octi as I hand him back. She doesn't think literally or of the physical repercussions; she thinks more emotionally than anything. How would _she_ feel? Not what would happen, or how the city's moral would be affected; she'd be sad, she says. _Sad_.

"But how would you manage?"

"Bubbles, don't feed a fire." Blossom sits at her desk and broods, hunched over her book and tapping a pencil on the arm of the chair. She has her hair twisted in a sloppy bun, wound like a roll of bread at the base of her skull. It looks heavy and uncomfortable...and I'd still like to grow mine out.

"I think we'd be okay. But you're not really leaving, are you Buttercup?" She widens her eyes, pouting and looking distressed. I'm relieved to hear an honest answer, though I figure I'd prodded at the topic long enough to force on what I'd wanted to hear. I'm stubborn like that, Ms. Kean once told me.

I open my mouth, watching her inspect Octi's stitching and scroll through her MP3. I reassure her falsely. "Course not."

I leave that night. I escape as soon as Blossom passes out from her compulsive studying and energy-drink high. I pack a bag and go.

Townsville doesn't need a third wheel. It can't handle direct aggression. Townsville lacks tolerance for people like me; it's too soft.

I can protect another city.

I though it'd been a good idea at the time.

* * *

Leaving, I see something odd. Odd enough to force me to land. I couldn't dismiss my curiosity, nor that 'tainted' heroism Blossom so often reminds me of. There's a kid, just some random teenager...my age maybe. Sixteen, at the most. He's out late, tagging a wall as though it were some kind of commendable accomplishment. Grinning almost painfully and looking sort of ill-minded.

So I stop rather than flying away. Because something is always going to hold me back in this stupid city.

And I look at the untalented graffiti work of a juvenile delinquent, who's chuckling at some incoherent joke he'd made under his breath. It says 'TG' in sharp letters, colored black and green. TG. I don't recall, and I doubt I'll ever be aware of its actual meaning. Maybe the kid's name? His favorite video game, or movie? I don;t care, either way.

He's suddenly aware of my presence, stunned silent and briefly engrossed in panic. He throws his spray paint can in my direction, running and huffing clumsily. I make it quick to grab him by the collar and demand an explanation, hissing threats to break his fingers for vandalism.

"You have no idea, Puff. No clue wha's comin'." He tells me, swallowing twice and scratching at my grip. He looks like he's on something, either bathsalts or acid. I'm not familiar with drugs.

"Isn't tagging a Gang Green thing?" I ask him impatiently, wasting time. I'm loosing moonlight, and the sun rises early in Townsville...it always has.

"Like I says, you've got no clue." He laughs mockingly through his unease, and that alone earned him a busted nose. I drop him off, unconscious, on the police station's steps. If not for justice then strictly for purposes of humiliation. The cops don't question criminals ending up on their doorstep anymore. I'll genuinely miss that norm, where they trust us enough to step over certain rules._ Exceptions in the name of proper justice_, Commissioner White would say. _Just read them their rights, first._

Despite the graffiti set-back I continue out of town. But it's a situation that still bothers me, even as I fly over the last of the suburbs and follow the freeway towards Citiesville. I still hear that guy's disturbed laughter and accusations. I think on what he'd said...how I have no idea, not a clue. It seems ominous, uncomfortably so.

I should have listened...I should have never left.

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**A/N: Thank you for reading! The next chapter will skip three years, though Buttercup's experiences outside of Townsville will be told and referenced to. Ace will also make his initial appearance, I believe, and Townsville will have degraded into something unrecognizable. **

**Please review! I'd be most grateful!**


	2. Home

**A/N: Ace makes a brief appearance here, but it's 100% guarantee that he will be the main focus of chapter three! Sorry for the late post, everyone! But I usually don't update until I reach a set number of reviews and feedback. Thank you for your patience, nonetheless! I appreciate your time and consideration! Please, enjoy.**

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**Chapter 2: Home  
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The first time I'd looked at a newspaper, I tore it to pieces before burning what was left with my eyes. I'd been in a diner at the time and was immediately asked to leave. I hadn't minded, the paper upset me more than some waitresses' paranoia.

There had been this photo of me from a recent battle, maybe a month or two prior to my alleged 'disappearance'. I looked proud, hands on my hips, cocky grin wide and expressing despite Blossom nagging me from the sidelines. And the title of some ignorant journalist's piece of assumed fiction, in bold on the third page, read 'Missing Puff Spotted In New Valla'. And the distressing part, dismissing the shitty photograph, was the nine paragraphs of conspiracies and accusations this guy had written, ending with 'cont. on page 28'.

And on that page, six more.

So I ripped it up and cooked it, and left the diner hungry.

I never so much as glanced at another news article after that. I ignored the stories on the television, avoided the numerous stares and whispers of confusion when I walked into a public place undisguised. I left Townsville behind, I dropped the past entirely despite how often it was shoved right back into my face. I felt successful after my first year on the road. I felt empowered and independent, as if I were finally free of the threat that was the past. I had this boundless feeling; nothing could stop me.

I ended up in a city on the West coast, having traveled from one end of the country to the next aimlessly. People would look and point when I flew, take pictures and wave and throw things. I decided to walk, soon after someone had the nerve to shoot at me with an actual gun. The bastard.

I think they called it San Mollie. Pretty sure. There'd been this bank robbery nearby, so I intervened.

A man and his partner had taken hostages, held them as bullet coverage while attempting negotiations. The local heroes were preoccupied by a bomb threat downtown. I swept in, nearly beat both men to death and secured the area. Local law enforcement was furious. I was reprimanded and threatened by the SMPD before being asked to depart from their city. I doubt they could sue me. I had a grand and some clothes. I was frustrated.

I set up shoppe on the East Coast, in New Harlan, an indescribably large and grungy city. There were nice regions, such as Greens and Valley Hills, but I couldn't afford much in a city that overpriced on housing. I lived simple and rented out a single room apartment, paying second-hand rent to avoid identification and loans. I was working part-time at a local theater, frequenting this coffee shoppe a block down. I kicked ass consistently; I liked doing it, and I had experience in the field of bloody knuckles. People liked me in Harlan. They appreciated the 'female vigilante' sweeping their streets.

I assume no one really recognized me. Blossom was always the paparazzi's concern. Bubbles was second, I wasn't as feminine nor as alluring. I had too many muscles and not enough hair. I was the toughest fighter. So I stuck to what I knew.

It was my third year as a supposed 'unrecognized hero' that I'd heard anything of Townsville. That I'd heard about my sisters.

"Did you hear?" This woman at my usual coffee shoppe smiles, stirring creme into her drink and looking to the man beside her with a crooked smile.

I just wanted my tea and then to leave, but my instinctive curiosity had yet to fail me.

"Hear what? There's a lot going on lately." I hadn't known what he'd meant, considering the election and the plane crash in Hallsville.

"The Powerpuff girls are in town, negotiating something with the local heroes." Those words strike me. I feel nauseous, suddenly. I feel physically incapable and ill, my hands shake and I freeze.

"Speed and The Arrow?" I recall those two, seeing them patrolling in daylight. They were the first of few to appreciate my help in cutting back crime. Most heroes look at it as invading turf...it was nice to meet civilized individuals who were actually concerned for their city.

I watch this couple sip their coffee, oblivious to my identity and distracted by their conversation. They sit a table down, unpacking laptops and textbooks. She's wearing the local university colors and sporting the logo on her lanyard.

College kids. That girl reminds me of Blossom. The guy beside her, with his indoor sunglasses and snide smirk, reminds me of Ace. I call it coincidence, thinking of the two people I resent most in the world.

I'm shaking, still.

"Yea. I guess the Puffs need help? Townsville must be getting worse, or else they wouldn't have left it vulnerable." She sips her coffee, catching my eye and making a face.

I leave without my tea.

I leave everything I can't carry behind and fly to Townsville despite my intentions to leave the country. I fly home rather than listening to my gut and walking away. I just fly, because it feels right to defy my own agenda.

I should have just gone to Germany. I should have just dropped off in Russia or the UK.

But I didn't go. This was my last chance to see home. I figured it would be wrong of me to just pass it by and neglect what had raised me. Disown what had built and accepted me for so long. I never held prejudice against Townsville, or my family, or the people; I just wanted something different. I wanted somewhere that needed me. I wanted a brief taste of independence, and maybe more.

I got it. And I wasn't giving it up.

When I approach, I don't recognized it. I almost pass it, having noticed the structures of the inner city and recalling the familiar display. I humor myself and stop at the main freeway entrance, hardly busy despite the early hour. The welcome sign, once a perfect and unmarked reflection of the city, is painted over in black and tagged. I pause, because that graffiti is eerily familiar...so much that it weighs on me.

"T.G." It sounds stupid aloud, written in extravagant and empowering letters for everyone entering to gawk upon. It's a reminder, and a sign of dominance. I look closer at the suburbs, noticing the pollution stifling the homes and acting as a smoggy overcast. It hangs like death over the populace.

The tags are placed specifically, on walls and buildings and certain shoppes. They litter the community like production labels, tainting everything and labeling ownership. I'm indifferent, at first, but as I set my attention on a billboard, I feel almost haunted.

It's reformed into a reminder, sending a constant message to the residents and instilling fear. A man, decayed and rotting, hangs off the edge like a rag doll, swinging against the breeze. The board reads "We control you. -Triple G." In capitals, demanding obedience.

I feel sick, almost guilty.

The corpse dangling abroad is worn by weather, decomposed to dried meat on bone and an oddly textured skin. His hat, a businessman's fedora, is clearly stapled into his scalp. His hands are missing, eyes long gone from scavenging birds and clothes ripped and dried red. He moves with the wind again, and looked as though he should be creaking as he swings.

I don't want to see it.

But the people in the streets, walking or driving, look up and point at me as though a miracle. They awe at my presence, whispering among themselves like rodents. I spot an officer and fly closer, my intentions having been to question his lack of enforcement, until he aims a gun and yells out some incoherent threat. I'm swift to jump further into unreachable air space and observe from a distance.

I move on. I fly home without scrutinizing the city, noting the overgrowth that covers the south wall and curls over a rounded window of the house I'd grown in. That was my chore, before I'd left: cutting back the weeds. Maintaining the landscape.

The windows are barred with iron, crossing vertical and horizontal on all three. The farthest left is shattered, but not broken. The grass is shorter than expected, but yellowed in patches and dirt. Even the door is worn, donning an unsavory amount of overlaying graffiti that covers all reachable ends of the exterior.

"Puffs suck."

"Burn."

"Get out."

"One gone - two left."

I'm stunned halfway through my observation, listening as the door is opened with hesitation at a slow, abnormal pace. The Professor eases his way out, silent, gray and tense. He's so old, now. Three years and he's aged horribly. He looks tired, worn, beaten. He's not the same man, he's not even wearing his old lab coat.

He sees me, floating downwards and landing awkwardly with a tense expression. I try my best to smile, hands fisting at my sides despite our reunion. He falls to his knees instantaneously, car keys clattering against pavement and the meek beginnings of tears glossing his eyes. He looks to me solemnly, not with the surprise or eagerness I had predicted. His lips are curled downwards with wrinkles at the edges of unshaven skin. His teeth barred in genuine agony, cussing trough them as he cries. I'm confused. I step back out of shock.

"Buttercup." He mutters my name, stunned into some kind of trance. He reaches out, sobbing more and covering his face with two, roughened, calloused hands.

I tear up. Why wouldn't I? My father appears broken and pitiful...and I nearly lose myself in his grief. But I can't. I need answers. I'm the toughest fighter.

"What the hell's going on, Professor?" I have no time for the emotional reunion of maker and child. I push past my devastation, eying the car keys and picking them up. I hand them over, and he looks horrified.

"You think this is a joke." He mumbles it, shaking and leering back. His eyes narrow, nose pinching at the bridge with a look of upset confusion. He thinks I'm some punk, mocking him. Playing a heartless card and disguising myself as his misplaced daughter.

I don't know what to tell him. I have to be direct...I have to be plain, but my confusion interferes.

If I can't get a response I'll read that paper. But I'd rather not.

"Professor. It's really me. I can prove it, but you have to tell me what's going on...now." I speak, and it doesn't come out a strong as I had hoped. I'm still really uncertain. If I flew out like a coward now, no one would notice, and the Professor would consider it another rotten kid.

He opens his mouth to speak, but screaming and gunfire interrupts our heartfelt reunion. I hear crack after crack, listening to the bullets pierce flesh with sensitive hearing. The Professor doesn't been blink, but he groans. And he stands up, picks up his keys, and starts the car.

I fly in the direction of the assault, quick to interrupt the crime as soon as possible. The Professor had driven away.

There are men, with Gang Green, pointing their rifles at a group five blocks over. Two are dead, bleeding out onto their driveway and laying motionless. The one had no face, having been shot off and made into a gummy, blood-soaked mess. The other was a swollen pulp, bruised over every inch of his splotched, irritated skin. The front lawn of some civilian's home collects pools of blood, soaking in the visual agony of the situation. It reeks of death, and I fight off the need to gag.

The youngest girl screams, wails of desperation and sorrow echoing over a bitter, gross town that would not respond. Neighbors across the street shut their doors quickly, lowering the bars on their windows and closing themselves off from reality.

I beat the first until something snaps. He wails, then stops moving. His hair is greasy, face ridden with acne and bruises. Some dumb ass kid, ruining his life.

The second one shoots at me. He has some cheap black-market pistol he can't load properly. He spends four bullets, nailing me in the shoulder on the fifth. It bounces back. I barely felt it.

"You ain't no hero, broad." He yells, shaking. "You ain't no Puff."

I call him an idiot. And I think that's when he recognized the toughest fighter. As the terror of who he's messing with spreads over his face, he realizes I'm Buttercup. He recognizes this woman to be that little girl three years back, who'd apparently made the mistake of leaving. This entirely changed and developed individual as that child who'd kick ass every afternoon before lunch. That girl who mercilessly left Seduca maimed and incapable, who'd cut off the armed hand of Femme Fatale, aiming to kill. Who'd rip a lung from his chest in an instant.

He pops a final shot before pulling out a walky talkie, hands trembling at the forced glow I expelled from my eyes.

"Snake! Snake for the love of fuck it's a Puff! It's Buttercup!"

There's no response, initially. I stand there, waiting. Perhaps it was unwise, but I was genuinely curious, and I needed answers. Like a woman needs closure after the death of her son, I needed information. I wanted the truth, a sort of explanation. Before long I hear the drawn out hiss of a deeper voice, one I would never have guessed had the name not already been given. Snake was hit with puberty hard, apparently; I'm surprised he's still around.

"Then fuckin' _sssshoot_ her, idiot."

I take another six bullets before knocking Snake's thug unconscious, snapping his arm and making enough noise to force backup to respond. And then I wait, because Snake always held a bad grudge, and he'd be here to act on his bitter need for revenge. The low man on Ace's piss-poor totem pole had crawled his way up from the dirt and ground, sending his own boys out to shoot at Puffs. I admit I'd been impressed.

The remainder of the group, having been antagonized, was now gone despite their fallen comrades. All having worn an odd shade of red, looking uniform. The neighborhood was barren of life, suddenly, and for a long moment I felt entirely alone. Waiting for some Gang Green scum to blitz attack me and fail. Like an idiot. But it all continued to bother me, this entire situation. The way death was a social norm now, so different. The way bodies hung from billboards, and officers turned a gun on heroes. The way fear had crept into the heart and soul of this useless city, stealing its moral and beating it into submission.

"Holy shit. Buttercup?" The familiarity of that voice is almost haunting. I resent that tone with a bloody fist and tense shoulders. I turn to confront him, mapping out my reaction with blazing eyes. I can feel the heat build behind my irises, ready to send him into the nine realms of hell and oblivion...until I see his face. And I realize, in that instant, that Ace maintains more power than I alone could ever impact.


	3. Ace

**A/N: I believe this chapter speaks for itself. Please review!  
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**Chapter 3: Ace  
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He has this look on his face; I can't identify it. I've seen it once before, but I can hardly remember on what occasion. The greasy hair is gone, that's the first thing I happen to notice. He's taller and holds better posture, tilting his shades down as though second-guessing my appearance. Ace has six men with him, five of which I don't know, the last being Snake who held a look of gross despondence. I count seven armed guns, out of learned caution, cradled accordingly, and an untouched five more adorning waists and belts.

He has two hand guns under each arm beneath his jacket. I can barely make out the odd shift in fabric at his torso, but the shoulder holster is strapped over his front. He's got a sub-machine gun in his left hand, holding it loose at his side like some kind of toy. The excessive amount of visible weapons makes me uneasy. I'm literally immune to bullets, I'm not afraid, but the amount implies a constant need for them. It's become a daily norm.

"Ace. What the hell is going on?" I should have asked something a little more specific. I sound too desperate for my own liking.

I look at Snake, who stood a few steps back with a bitter glower focused on my shoes. His teeth are barred awkwardly, snarl prominent on his face. They're dressed uniquely, clad in denim and leather like some kind of biker gang. Their jackets have the old group logo on the back, somewhat revised to appeal to the younger crowds. A little more sharp on the edges, like marketing. And on the seams of one kid in particular, unique to the rest, it says 'TG'. Tripple G – Gang Green Gang.

I feel like an idiot. Three years later, I feel like some dipshit rookie, playing pretend. I scowl, creasing my brow, knuckles turning white. I want to kill something.

"Listen, Buttercup. We don't have time to talk. Meet me in the old backyard, tonight. Don't let 'em see ya'." He gestures his gun at one of the few bodies, the gore finally reaching my nose. I wince, listening to them shuffle around and whisper among themselves. Someone reloads, but I return my attention to find them scattered and gone. Inexplicably, they had vanished.

And I was left with a few unappealing hours of daylight.

* * *

This city was miserable. It was clean, save the graffiti. I didn't see much illegal action, not even the usual bank robbery.

I understand the term 'old backyard'. The junkyard, as we'd always called it. Ace's place of refuge, their little shack in the middle of heaps of garbage.

When I arrive at the front, some soft spoken gunman flags me down. He leads me into the shack, shabby and worn down even more than I recall. There are seventeen other people, four of which armed women, within the cruddy wood-built structure. It leads to a cellar, which leads to underground halls, which leads to a specified artillery room I was unceremoniously shoved into. I don't bother fighting or making a fuss. If they'd really wanted me dead, I assume they would have already acted.

There he is, with a scowl and a load of packed weapons at his side. It smells like metal down here...bitter.

He approaches me urgently, pistol in hand, the trigger flush against his index. He hurries forward, a serious expression strange on his face and a tension I'd never seen stiffening his shoulders. I take a defensive stance, entirely uncertain of his intentions. He could be insane at this point. Look at this cesspool of a city; it wouldn't be much of a surprise.

His face is immediately within an uncomfortable distance of mine, and he looks past his infamous shades to make direct eye contact. A slow smile squirrels itself onto his lips, grin pulling up to expose his teeth like some rugged animal.

There's this long pause, one he seems comfortable with.

"Hey." He says, flirtatiously. And that's it. That's all. As blunt and pointless as he'd been three years ago. As he'd been six, eight or ten years before. With this careless countenance he loved hiding behind, because he was young and dumb and irresponsible. I feel resentful, again, having never let my grudge go.

"You haven't changed at all, have you?" I ask, a little more bitter than intended. But he keeps up the charming facade, adjusting his posture and waving a dismissive hand.

"I personally like to think I'm a bit more mature than my trash-rifling days, but what the hell do I know?" He grins again, leaning back against the far wall. I watch his firearm, how he holds it. Almost proper.

"You're an idiot." I mean it. Nothing's different, after three years.

He pauses, dropping his smile momentarily. It resurfaces before long. "Not much changed with you, huh Buttercup? Heh – other than the tits."

I patiently ignore his last comment, entirely prepared to slap the shit out of him if necessary. But I didn't, and that alone was impressive. There was little tolerance for Ace anymore, even after three or four years of absence. I've only now noticed the more firm restraint on my heated disposition. It's been a long time since I've acted strictly out of rage or irritation – it's been a long time since anything's annoyed me this much.

He chuckles, which irks me further. "The temper, too. Usually I'd have a busted rib by now."

I change the subject.

"What is this, Ace? Some self-righteous empire?" I extend an unusually tense arm, gesturing to the city despite our place underground. I want some kind of answer. What happened. What's his stupid little game. Who's playing him this time? Why are we so low? When did Townsville die? This is my chance, for better or worse. I find myself desperate to know these things.

"I'd like to think of it as a system," he begins. "An eye for an eye type of business, ya' know? We run it; this city belongs to us, so we take care of it. Townsville is in good hands, despite what the papers say." He pauses, tapping the barrel of his pistol against his cheek. "Your sisters aren't doin' a very good job, either, BC. Always handing my boys over to the corrupt cops down at the big house. Thinkin' they're still cleaning the streets and keepin' up with the crime."

"I see that." He's still an idiot. There can't be so many paid cops.

"Blossom nearly killed that stupid hick last year. Did you hear about that? Made the news almost everywhere. Broke every bone in that hillbilly's body."

"Who?"

"Fuzzy Lumpkins, genius. Hasn't come back into town since he recovered and escaped. Dumb bastard."

"Why?" I scold myself for asking. Ace was a liar. He's always been a liar. Even since the first day I met him, he was compulsive and indulgent in deceit, if only to cover his own ass. So much that once I'd literally set his pants aflame. My sister had found it hysterical. Even Big Billy had laughed.

"No idea. Figured it had something to do with you, but there was never much gossip about it on the street. All business, no talk. Still, your sis was sued, patronized, assaulted...made a victim of the media and those fuckin' liberals. Even stupid, backwoods, rage monsters have rights, I guess." He shrugs, sniffing. I've never heard him take a side, much less Blossom's.

I stay quiet, and he decides to continue. "I give her credit, though. First time someone threw fast food leftovers at me? Would've put a full magazine in their stomach, empty out their lunch. She took it day to day, still does hero work, took the blame and carried it around. Saved the city a hundred times after that, an' even then it wasn't enough. Tough sis, you got."

I ignore his praise, more focused on current events. More concerned about the city. Blossom could take care of herself. What disturbed me was his immense honesty...the sincerity was unusual and suspicious. The way he kept a solid countenance, the change in expressions that matched his mood, and even the stillness of his hands. He doesn't fidget.

"You're not lying, are you?" I ask him blatantly, certain nonetheless. He gives me a look.

"Still think I'm on that? Can't afford to lie anymore, Cup. Not good for the reputation...or the health."

"The health?"

"Can't have bruises ruining this perfect complexion. No one here tolerates wasted time. And that's what lying is, anymore: a waste of time." He scoffs.

I've had enough. My patience thins out at his elongated explanations, at his immense change in character. He's been acting like god. Playing some mighty leader, acting distant from reality. I snap at his self-righteousness, jabbing him in the chest with my index, forcing him to hear me out.

"Listen, Ace. You may think you have this city under your thumb, but you don't. You can think that your some powerful mafia godfather, but you're not. This is a fad, it'll end."

"Woah, kid, calm down." He chuckles nonchalantly, raising a tense hand in surrender. It pisses me off. "This ain't no fad. That whole HIM cult is a goddamn fad. This is a governing system, a way to control an entire city. I don't think you get it, Buttercup. We hold it up now. No exceptions."

"How do you run an entire city, Ace? Think about it. You can't rule something as a monarchy. It never works!"

"This ain't a monarchy, BC!" He yells, suddenly. Almost begging me to understand. "You really have no idea what's going on, do ya? What'd you move to Canada or somethin'?"

I can physically feel my blood boil.

"Talk, Ace."

"It's all divided, kid. Snake runs the east side and the suburbs. Arturo runs the south end and the Industrial District, Grubber the bridge, west end and beaches. I take the north and inner city. Billy runs the ghetto's security...and Morebucks is in charge of both the Colonial and Business Districts."

I feel delusional. My head hurts, taking in the possibility of a gang-run city. He explains it easily despite my initial accusations, sure of himself and his system. I have so many questions.

"Morebucks? Princess Morebucks?" My initial inquiry, more of a name said in disbelief.

"Yeah. Daddy keeled over after a bad stroke a couple years ago. She's been treating this town like a billion dollar corporation in his place. We can't overrun her considering her grip on the economy...plus our deal with the gang and the feds. Bitch has both the Sheriff and Commissioner eating pennies out of her hand like rats. May her father rest in peace, dealing with that spoiled little shit."

Princess was always a snobby little shit, even through freshman year. I tolerated her need to be superior as much as I did anyone else's. Her money paid her out of jail every goddamn time.

"What about the Mayor?" I ask abruptly, almost unaware of the fact that I'd spoken.

"Mayor Weslow? Like any Jester to his Princess. Dancing for the public eye and kissing her ass behind the scenes."

Weslow...who the hell was Welsow? I'd been referring to the Mayor. Our mayor. It suddenly occurs to me that he's likely out of office, having been past his appropriate amount of terms. It would make more sense than him still running, given his age.

"Weslow?" I'm still confused.

"Oh-...the Mayor? The midget in office three years ago? Retired, I assume. Not in Townsville, anyway."

"Ms. Bellum?"

"Who?"

"Nevermind."

"I don't look smart, and I know I don't sound it, BC. But I can run this damn city better than anyone used to. I studied for this, trained for it...I can handle the repercussions."

He surprises me with his sincerity. I still have trouble trusting him. Would you honestly blame me? After all that he's done?

"I never doubted that, idiot." I lie. "It's not right, is what I'm arguing."

"Not right? So I was supposed to let Weslow bend over and take out the east suburbs for Morebucks' piece of shit outlet mall? I was supposed to let that psychopath Mojo release his virus into airports for some kind of Planet of The Apes turnout? I was just gonna let your bitch sisters start throwin' my boys in jail after we went clean? Nah." He scoffs again, upset. "Four years ago, I started recruitin' out of necessity. I wasn't gonna let this place burn, like anyone else would've. Then you took your sorry ass and left. Left us to rot, stayin' missing and leaving us – us – a bunch of Chemical X freakshows with rotted skin to fend off the corruption eatin' Townsville alive!"

"If you hate it then why are you protecting it‽ "

" 'Cause this is home, Cup. I ain't got anywhere else, and the power I've got here is a high better than any cheap, shit drug. Maybe it would've been different if you hadn't played turncoat and run off, with your tail between your fuckin' legs."

"I left because I thought they had it under control! I thought they could take care of it! I didn't know until it was too late."

We're in a yelling fit at this point, divided on opinions. That, and we're both stubborn. Myself more so than Ace. He's blaming me, now. Asshole.

"That your excuse, PowerPuff?" He spits to the side, snarling. "Is that the best you can do? Say you avoided every paper and news channel around? Maybe you found some boy-toy to fuck around with rather than save your city?"

"Shut up, Ace."

"Did you go to college? Throw up some pompoms and show some skin? Try to blend in with the humans? Try to pretend you're not a freak like the rest of us, maybe start a family?"

I can feel the unintentional sneer on my face. My shoulders are rigid enough to hurt my lower back, and my toes are curling out of aggravation. I can hear my heart beating at least double the standard pulse. I'm fuming.

"You're a delusional nutcase!"

He laughs at me, blatantly. "I like to consider myself more...eccentric than delusional. But, as they say, this city can do things to your head. Keeps us freaks on our toes."

It'd been some time since I was actually afraid of anything. Maybe four years, maybe less. I think the last battle facing HIM had revealed my breaking point. That was horrifying. But the fact that this loser aimed his gun at my forehead...that was tolerable. His drastic change in personality is what made me uneasy. I've been shot before, no big deal. I shrug off bullets like they're pebbles. But I've never been shot this close. I don't think it'd kill me. Maybe a bad concussion.

"If you shoot me you'll regret it, Ace."

"Not if I put the first one in your skull, Buttercup."

There's this long, dramatic silence that I find myself resentful of. Or perhaps it was just Ace. Nonetheless, I found myself suddenly cautious. It dawned on me, in a moment of slow-mindedness, that he no longer feared me. That this gun he had against my head was a serious threat, and that the scowl he wore was a countenance of preparation...for the worst case scenario. He was building himself up, stoning himself just in case he had to pull that trigger.

I couldn't believe this. I couldn't just accept the fact that the once ignorant, childish leader of some pathetic street gang had been through enough struggle to become legitimate. I had to test my theory, prove myself wrong and beat off that new facade he was (quite possibly) wearing. Ace was still some dumb thug coward; he would never amount to anything else. His mother told him that, Blossom told him that, an officer told him that...and I had told him that. Regretfully.

I still needed to see it for my own eyes, not just hear it.

I force myself to duck, kicking at his feet, snagging the 9mm during his brief moment of distraction. I turn it on him, stiff, and realize that there's already another gun out of his holster – all black. We're at this heavy-breathed standoff, entirely serious. I still hold a grudge. I still manage to hate him.

But Ace doesn't beg, not like he used to, for his meager excuse for a life. He doesn't even wince, or show weakness or struggle like the stupid virgin I'd fought a hundred times before. He has a barrel pointed at one of my eyes, and I have mine pointed at his crotch. And he's set in a moment of deliberation, trigger finger steady and solid. It scares me, to see him somehow entirely reformed, made into something better.

I'm beginning to accept it. Slowly, but surly. I force myself to, because a part of me argues that I won't survive this city without Ace, and vice versa.

He doesn't lie anymore. He's clean, both hygienically and in the terms of drug use. He's not some ignorant bully, and he's not a scared teenager on the brink of trash. He's educated himself, street smarts, and he's holding back from telling me a million other things. I was wrong. Nothing here is the same. If Ace can change so drastically, then I'd hate to see everything else. I'd hate to see my sisters.

I open my mouth to speak, tasting the blood I'd bitten out of my tongue. "You're not a freak."

I admit it; he's not. He smirks, scoffs and lowers his gun. I follow suit.

"Yeah, well...neither are you."

* * *

End, so far. Next chapter we will cover HIM and the uprising cult! Blossom and Bubbles make an appearance!


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